


A friend in need

by SrebrnaFH



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Minor Character Death (Mentioned), Post-Reichenbach, Tags Contain Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 03:55:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18770680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrebrnaFH/pseuds/SrebrnaFH
Summary: It's been barely a week from Sherlock's death.John has been receiving text messages from a strange number.Finally, he decides to answer.





	A friend in need

**Author's Note:**

> The idea accosted me on the tram home.  
> So, this one isn't even edited a lot, just a few corrections here and there.

'My condolences, doctor Watson. If you ever fell a need for a sympathetic ear, I offer my services.'  
That was the first text message.  
The whole of it.  
John had looked at it without comprehension.  
He looked at most things like that these days.  
Sherlock's chair, which had long lost the impression of having been sat on.  
Sherlock's room, which was quiet.  
The kitchen, where laboratory glassware was empty.  
The telly... telly that was actually full of Sherlock. And John. And all these closeups and interviews and analyses and talking heads turning Sherlock's good name into a meme, a joke, a warning, a bogeyman.  
The dead detective. The flying fake. The shameful sham.  
Alliterations were endless.  
The dullard of a doctor. The simpleton of a soldier.  
These were less numerous.  
And they hurt less.  
The phone buzzed again. He didn't want to check it. The previous message read, nonsensically, “My offer stands. Name the place and time.”  
The number was nobody he knew, but the person seemed weirdly insistent. A text once a day, like clockwork.  
Seven days since the fall.  
Seven texts offering him support, help, compassion. Someone's hand reaching out to him in the world that had lost it's meaning.  
He picked up the mobile and contemplated the collection of texts.  
'My condolences, doctor Watson. If you ever fell a need for a sympathetic ear, I offer my services.'  
'I hope you are holding up.'  
'Saw you on the news the other day. You look tired.'  
'I could drop by, if you don't want to risk a meeting in a public place.'  
'That landlady of yours must be worried sick.'  
And then the one from the day before...  
And the last one.  
'Let's have dinner.'  
There was something in these texts, something that spoke to him, something that sounded familiar. But it wasn't anyone he knew, it couldn't be. Molly's number was on his contact list, Mycroft was more of a drop-by-unannounced kind of person anyway, Greg had texted him once and stayed silent since. Mrs Hudson came by daily and nagged him into eating one meal at least. Harry... well, Harry would not be calling him doctor Watson.  
Some journalist perhaps. Someone they met during that disaster of a case. Or maybe Moriarty himself. Well, that would have been interesting.  
He sighed.  
Nothing was interesting, not anymore. Not now, not ever.  
Slowly, slowly, he clicked Reply,  
'I don't know this number. Please stop texting me.'  
A buzz of his mobile broke the silence two minutes later.  
'I was afraid you were just ignoring me, but it seems I was just assuming with too much optimism that you might have copied my contact from him. I.'  
I. What I? Were they stopped from writing the rest? Was this some weird emoticon his mobile couldn't interpret...?  
John rubbed his eyes.  
'I still don't know who you are. Please desist.'  
Two minutes went by. Five.  
Ten.  
Bzzzt.  
He looked at the phone with distaste.  
'I'm sorry. It seems I hadn't been clear enough. I will however cease the communication if you wish so. Irene.'  
He almost dropped the phone.  
Bzzzt.  
'I have assumed also that your friend shared with you the information of my continued survival (thanks to his efforts). I see now that he had been deficient in that area. I hope we could meet, if only briefly.'  
He breathed deeply and shakily.  
'Come to 221B. I'm waiting.'  
Fifteen seconds.  
Bzzt.  
'I'm coming. Ten minutes.'  
Eight of these minutes he spent in frozen stupor, trying to work out... something. Anything.  
Nothing made sense.  
Ninth minute found him downstairs - he didn't want Mrs Hudson to be exposed to any new shocks, after all.  
Tenth.  
A bell.  
And there she was, tall, slender, slightly exotic, dark and dangerous.  
There was a sudden tightness in his chest and he felt for the wall behind him in a vain attempt at regaining his balance.  
"John, is that you?"  
He barely managed to turn towards his landlady when he heard a choked "Christ!" and the door being slammed shut.  
"At least she didn't faint," The Woman remarked philosophically. "Now, can I come in? The vultures were driven off, but that is temporary."  
He shook slightly, trying to bring himself to something resembling a communicative state.  
"Please," he croaked. "Upstairs. You know the way."  
He closed the door carefully, turning the lock for good measure. Who knew what the 'representatives of the press' would think of next. He wouldn't rule out an attempt to break in, if they became desperate.  
When he entered the flat, she was standing by Sherlock's desk, looking at the small heap of papers.  
"Don't," he warned softly. "Don't touch anything or I'll break your hand."  
"Oh," she turned back to him, half-smile tugging at her painted lips. "There is some fight left in you then."  
He slid slowly down into his chair, keeping off the aching leg.  
"Yes," he answered with a shrug. "I already know what is wrong with my head, you don't need to try your tricks on me. They won't work."  
She pulled a chair out from the table and sat down, facing him.  
Avoiding Sherlock's empty seat.  
"For one, I'm not trying to pull any tricks here," she said in a very serious voice. "This is me, honestly offering my help. Secondly..." she paused and looked away. "I know what you are going through."  
There was a long pause.  
"And, third, I am, in fact, a licenced therapist."  
Well, that was a surprise.  
"You're what?"  
"A medical professional," she made a face. "However mad that may sound, I have papers, a diploma and various professional trainings. This is the real deal, doctor Watson. I am qualified to advise, direct therapy and even write prescriptions."  
He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.  
"Nope," he wheezed. "Nope, no. I... no. No way."  
"I am probably the only person who will listen and understand," she stood up and looked down at him. "I will not press you, but if you don't get out of this rut soon, I may apply some additional incentives."  
Before she could lean closer, John had her in a neat, very tight hold, face pressed against the seat of the sofa.  
"You can keep your additional incentives for your clients," he said slowly, enunciating each word carefully. "Try to touch me and I will break both of your hands."  
"That won't be necessary," she assured him. "Can you let me go? This thing is rather dusty."  
He loosened the hold slowly, taking a step back as she straightened her clothes.  
"Now that we are past this obstacle, can we maybe have a civilised conversation?" she... not-exactly-smiled.  
There was something in that smile.  
Something shivery.  
Something small and sad.  
"What happened?"  
She jerked, tensed up.  
"You said you know what I'm going through. Somehow I don't think you just meant Sherlock. What happened then? Was it..." he frowned. "Kate?"  
Her face froze.  
"Moriarty," he hazarded a guess. "Part of some demented plan to bring you back into the fold. Control, but it went too far. Did he have it handled by someone less than competent, or did she...?"  
"Cyanide," she said simply. "They threatened her... Doesn't matter."  
He stepped closer, putting his hand on hers.  
"It does," he said simply. "Sit down. Let me make you a cuppa."


End file.
